Month: April 2011

Most nights 70 – 80 kids show up, probably for the food, but also for the video games and the ping pong table and the pool table. And yes, even for the 20 minute inspirational talk. On rainy evenings even more kids pack into the building.

But when you definitely didn’t eat breakfast, and you probably didn’t eat lunch because your parents forgot (or just weren’t interested enough) to fill out the “free lunch” forms, then you tend to get pretty hungry by the time 5:30 rolls around.

* * * * *

The first time I met Chuck was outside The Factory, a youth and community center that he runs. I have a feeling he’s older than he looks, but hanging with kids all the time keeps you young. He shook my hand and looked me in the eye. And I liked him. No nonsense. Practical. Holding the course. That’s the feeling I got.

He showed me into The Factory, a renovated house where local, impoverished youth spend their afternoons and evenings. He used to use Bible stories in his talks, or read from scripture. Then one night, during a talk about Adam and Eve, when the blank stares became overwhelming, he asked a question.

“Listen, how many of you guys know the story of Adam and Eve? The Garden of Eden? Original sin?”

Out of the 80 kids there, 3 or 4 raised their hands.

“This generation doesn’t know the old Bible stories,” he said. “And that’s okay. I don’t care. I just want them to understand how much Jesus loves them. I just want them to go to bed with full stomachs. I want them to have a place to go if they need help.”

* * * * *

Recently one of the kids who is always at The Factory had a parent that died, and the kid vanished. For 24 hours no one knew where he was. He wouldn’t take any of his family’s phone calls or reply to anyone’s texts.

Well, actually, there was one person he sent texts to all day.

Chuck.

* * * * *

There are no strings attached at The Factory. If you want food, you come and take as much as you want. If you want help finding a job, show up and they’ll walk you through the interview process. If you’ve experienced death in the family, let them know and they’ll connect you with a local church – not because that church will recruit you, but because they will provide you with some meals, and someone to talk to.

Too often we leverage our position and privilege when working with those in poverty. “We’ll give you access to support and programs, but only if you come to church. We’ll provide for you, but only after you listen to us read from the Bible.”

What would my life look like if I lived out my Christianity with no strings attached?

* * * * *

You can learn more about the awesome things going on at The Factory, inquire about volunteer opportunities, or make a donation HERE.

John Steinbeck wrote, in the journals he kept while writing The Grapes of Wrath:

Early start this morning. Can’t ever tell. Worked long and slowly yesterday. Don’t know whether it was good, but it was a satisfactory way to work and I wish it would be that way every day. I’ve lost this rushed feeling finally and can get back to the easy method of day by day – which is as it should be…Today I shall work slowly and try to get that good feeling again. It must be. Just a little bit every day. A little bit every day. And then it will be through.

For him, the creation came bit by bit. Word on word. Day after day.

Stillness is good. It centers us, prepares us for what is to come. Rest is needed.

But movement is necessary.

* * * * *

A few weeks ago I was in bed, thinking about the garden I would plant. I imagined the rows, the placement of each seed. I pictured the way the spinach would push up through the dirt, the way the pea plants would get so heavy that my twine lines would sag under the weight of what they had to offer. I could almost hear the corn rustling on a warm summer’s night.

I cursed the yellow and black demon caterpillars who would show up and devour my broccoli, just as they did last year.

I could have lain there, night after night, picturing my garden. But without doing, without movement, nothing ever would have grown. Nothing but weeds.

* * * * *

Stillness is life. Movement is living.

* * * * *

Similar posts:

The Art is in the Work
The Art is in the Story

Want an easy way to make a difference in someone’s life? Check out Milka’s story:

Milka: One Woman’s Story from Nuru International on Vimeo.

How can you help? Easy – if you have any money to spare, go HERE and donate (put “24/7 Project” in the subject line so that we can track our progress). If you are a blogger or on Facebook, consider sending your readers and friends to this post, or to any of the bloggers listed below. If you are on Twitter, spread the word using the #247Project hash tag.

Thanks in advance for all your help. We have so much – why not take a little bit of that and give it to someone who needs it?

The following are the bloggers who are participating:
Seeking Pastor (Matt Cannon)
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Off the Cuff (K.C. Proctor)
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Alise…Write! (Alise Wright)

Today’s guest post is brought to you by Alise Wright. She’s guest-posted her before, writing about the “Blank Page, Blinking Cursor.” Today she’s here to tell us about a book project for which she is gathering stories.

Lonely. Angry. On hold. Useless. Weighted down.

These are some of the words that people have shared about their experiences with depression.

For me, depression is a prison. It traps my body, keeping me from moving. It traps my thoughts, keeping me from creating. It traps my soul, keeping me from connecting. The real me gets locked away and instead I’m this lethargic, boring, detached person.

Last fall, I could feel myself sliding into that depressed spot. Despite everything in my life being pretty good, I was having a difficult time finding the ability to enjoy it. I could feel myself withdrawing from friends and that even when I’d had a good time with them, I wasn’t able to be fully present and would leave feeling empty. It was an unpleasant time.

So I did what I know I need to do when I feel depression closing in. I told someone. I talked to my husband about it. And I shared what I was going through on my blog. It was a poorly written, whiney post that I dashed off just to get it out there.

And it resonated with people.

Even though I felt alone in my struggle with depression, I was not alone. There were others going through the same thing. And by sharing even a little snippet of my story, it reminded others that they didn’t have to go through depression thinking they were alone either.

What emerged was something beautiful. An opportunity for others to share their own stories. A safe place where people could read and share and encourage one another with their words.

In the midst of something that can be extremely isolating, we found community.

But this community is incomplete. We need your voice as well.

I’m partnering with Civitas Press to gather these stories about depression into a book. If you have a story about depression, we would love to invite you to share it.

I know it’s hard. Depression has a stigma attached to it that can make it difficult to share honestly about your struggles. However, I believe that one of the best ways we can break the shame associated with depression is through the telling of our story. I have found that it not only helps others, but it helps me as well.

If you are interested in participating in the Not Alone book project, please head over to the Civitas website and download the project document. We are accepting submissions through May 24, so there is still time for you to add your voice to the collective.

No matter how it feels, you are not alone.

I remember boarding the District tube line in London, England. The whole place smelled of diesel and urine, but every once in a while you’d get this blast of hot air carrying the scent of baking bread.

That’s London for you.

I settled in for what was normally a quiet ride, standing in the middle aisle, my hand holding on to the rail above, my body swaying with each turn like a scarecrow in a fall breeze.

Then he boarded the train. His head was shaved, his clothes were disheveled and his eyes, they were fire. He carried a megaphone attached to a small speaker (presumably for outdoor use). He was quiet, until the tube train started moving through the dark recesses of underground tracks.

It was as if he woke up.

“Do you know God, brother?” he screamed, six inches from the face of an older man. The man didn’t say anything, just stared right past him, so the guy with fire in his eyes moved to the next person.

“Do you know Jesus?” he challenged, this time directing his vengeance at a girl in her early twenties.

“Yes,” she replied, her lips terse, her skin pale. “I’m a Christian.”

He squinted, as if examining her soul. Then he laughed a mean laugh.

“You’re no Christian. If you were, you’d be doing this,” he said, brandishing his megaphone before moving down the row.

* * * * *

Whenever I explore different ways to communicate the concept of sin, I often hear the same comments.

“You’re not taking sin seriously enough,” they usually say. “You’re watering down the Gospel.” I grew up in a charismatic Evangelical church, so I understand the sentiment.

“You have to warn people,” some folks have commented. “You have to tell them that the wages of sin is death.”

* * * * *

Imagine coming to the horrible realization that the highway overpass you are on ends in midair. You pull your car over to the shoulder and wait, hoping to warn any oncoming drivers of the predicament ahead.

The first car approaches, and you manage to wave them to a stop. They roll down their window.

“You’ve got to stop. The road is in disrepair. Keep going, and you’re dead.”

The person looks at you, clueless. See, the thing is, you’re in a foreign country and they don’t speak your language. They shrug their shoulders, start to pull away. You don’t know what else to do, so you grab the driver in a choke hold and start beating him upside the head, grabbing for his keys. But he drives off, angry and terrified.

The next car approaches. Now that you know they don’t speak your language, you skip straight to the beating part, hoping to bludgeon them unconscious before they, too, plummet to their death. Once again, scared and angry, they drive off.

* * * * *

When will we realize that we have to learn a new language?

Mom and dad acted strange all day. Mom kept rubbing her hands together, as if trying to pull the skin off the bones. Dad stayed home from work. He never stays home from work, so he didn’t know what to do with himself. And he kept walking past me, messing up my hair, and wiping his eyes.

“Hey, son,” he’d say, walking away to another area of the house where continued doing nothing.

That afternoon mom asked me what I wanted for dinner.

“Anything,” she said, tilting her head to the side, as if looking at me for the first time. Or the last. “Your choice.” I went with spaghetti and meatballs. I knew it would be easy, and cheap.

That night she was in my room, rearranging things. When I came in she had a duffel bag packed so full it looked like an inflated swimming device.

“No matter what, you keep this,” she said.

“Am I going some where?”

“Not for long,” she said. But I knew she was lying. She held her hand up under her nose, as if to stop a sneeze, and moved past me. Ten minutes later they walked me out into the rain, the pouring rain. We stood there, outside my building, on what felt like the loneliest night of my whole life. No one said anything. We just got wet.

Then a van pulled up. Mom stuffed a ticket into my hand.

“You don’t lose this,” she said, her eyes wide. “This is your life. You don’t give it to anyone.”

I nodded. Dad picked me up and set me down inside the van – against the dry seats I felt even more wet. Dad slammed the door. The van driver pulled away, as if nothing had happened. As if I wasn’t even there.

I looked behind me – two people sat there: a woman with a scared look on her face, and a man that didn’t look scared enough.

“Hi,” I said.

“No talking!” shouted the driver.

“I’m cold,” I said, quietly. The driver turned on the heat.

“No talking,” he said, this time in a smaller voice.

I leaned over on my overstuffed duffel bag and fell asleep.

* * * * *

This is where you get to decide the direction of the story. The question is, who is this kid?

1) Macy‘s son

2) The son of the man who lives on death

3) The son of the woman who had been chasing Macy

4) It’s not his identity that matters – it’s what’s in the duffel bag

To read the beginning of this story, or to see how previous weeks’ decisions worked out (majority marked in bold), click HERE